


Essentially

by narsus



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-27
Updated: 2011-06-27
Packaged: 2017-10-20 19:13:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/216192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/narsus/pseuds/narsus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gregory Lestrade, in summary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Essentially

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to the BBC, Mark Gatiss & Steven Moffat, and obviously in the genesis of it all, to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

People often get the wrong impression of Gregory Lestrade. Often enough that he's pretty certain that there really must be something that he's doing to cause it. Perhaps it's the tired shadows under his eyes, perhaps it's the haphazard way that he puts on a tie, perhaps it's even the wedding ring that he sometimes wears, as an instant arsehole test, when he goes for a drink after work. It's probably the ring that does it but he's not going to give it up now, not when it's proven so useful, not when he can use it to weed out the idiots who approach him. Not when he still cherishes the memory of slipping it onto his finger and walking away from the man who'd broken his heart all those years ago. Not that it had been a great romance of any sort, just that it had been his first and that, like all first times, he'd thought it would go on forever. He doesn't actually have anything against the poor sod now but he had done, all those years ago. Being dumped had been bad enough but discovering, a few years later, that the bastard had gone on to marry a respectable young lady, discovering it after having slept with him again, had been a little too much. By then he'd already been using a wedding ring as an excuse, a distraction, so it had struck him as a brilliant idea to use it then. One day, he supposes, he ought to come clean, if only because he's certain that karma will eventually come back to bite him. Not that that's yet happened. Besides, if he's perfectly honest with himself, he can't imagine it would go over too well if he turned up at a respectable bank to talk to a respectable, married, banker after all this time. The poor man might well have a heart attack, which really, truly, absolutely, wouldn't be funny. Not even in the slightest, even if the idea makes smirk every time he thinks of it.

Some part of him most definitely disqualifies him from being a nice man after all. The part of him that still laughs over a low-handed blow against an ex's ego, the part of him that simply can't be bothered to explain to Sally, in the necessary detail, that no, really, Sherlock doesn't fit the profile for a serial killer, the very same part of him that wishes that people like Brian would stop trying to be so clever all the blasted time. A decent, upstanding, moral enough bloke would put a stop to all that nonsense. Wouldn't have slept with a man that he already suspected of being married, would have explained and thus dealt with Sally's fears, certainly wouldn't let Sherlock keep scoring points off poor Brian constantly. Of course Brian brings it on himself, Sherlock is always trying to provoke a catfight, Sally could profile him herself and John could stop looking so damn sorry for everybody else. Hell is other people, after all. Everyone else in the equation could deal with their own problems instead of waiting for him to do it for them. It's not his job. Nobody is paying him to do anything other than organise, observe and occasionally scoff at officers who'll never make CID. Some days he's not even sure that they really expect him to solve crimes anymore. His direct supervisor doesn't seem too bothered and whenever the Chief Super talks to him it usually consists of enquiries about his love-life, about which there are already far too many presumptions.

Sally keeps trying to set him up with suitable women. Sally whose heart is in the right place, whose brain is fully functional, whose understanding of community, cultural and privilege issues is second to none. The same brilliant Sergeant who one day will have a very real shot at a Superintendent’s position, who, for some completely inexplicable reason, has yet to fathom that her DI has no interest in any relationship, let alone one with a suitable, middle-aged woman. The Chief Super at least isn't trying to set him up with anyone, but that's only because he's convinced that Gregory is dating Sherlock. Which is another miss-assumption. Then again, there are men on the Isle of Dogs, men who've done their time, who recall a punch-up or two with young Sergeant Lestrade back in the day, who also seem to think he's dating Sherlock as well. He's lost track of the number of times he's dropped into an appropriate pub or café, making enquiries, only to be told that ‘his fella' had been about a day or two before and they'd given him what help they could. Of course he doesn't correct them. Sherlock is just that little bit safer going about his business with that assumption at his back. The men who presume are old hands at the game of cops and robbers, and they give respect where it's due. Sherlock might not be capable of rugby tackling any of them to the floor or hauling off and landing a blow that would leave any of them dazed, but they remember an officer who can, and did, and that's enough.

Gregory has no idea what Sherlock thinks of the assumption or even if he considers it at all. Sherlock is under no illusions after all. Neither is Mycroft. Gregory and Mycroft are friends after a fashion, fuck-buddies if he really wants to be crude about it. There is no seed of romanticism there, no presumption that one day they'll fall into an easy relationship because one or both of them got bored with everything else. _Men marry because they are tired, women, because they are curious: both are disappointed._ These days Gregory could, if not marry, at least enter into a civil union. He could settle down with a staid male partner and plan for a quiet retirement. He could, should he ever find someone to make him consider it, negotiate a few ground rules and carry on much as before, while being eternally bound in matrimony anyway. He could probably marry Mycroft: it's a match of which Mycroft's disapproving father would genuinely approve. He could, but it would be a disaster, not least of all because the minute Commander Holmes caught wind of Gregory's affair, with his precious younger son, all hell would break loose. Gregory doesn't fancy his chances against a man who was once employed in removing inconveniences for Queen and country after all.

Marrying Sherlock on the other hand is completely out of the question. Sherlock is young and reckless and makes a very good fry-up the next morning, but he's not really, entirely Gregory's type. He can be very loud and energetic, and never quite seems to know how to turn that off. Breakfast the morning after is always nice, and certainly Mycroft never makes the effort by way of comparison, and sometimes, if he's in a particularly good mood, Sherlock will do the laundry as well, but it's still not quite enough to tip the scales. Besides, there's something endearing about Mycroft's notions of left over takeaway for breakfast, or his menacing Gregory with a half eaten Savaloy. Gregory never has Savaloy with his chips, ever, but he never fails to remark that it's like trying to put a limp cock into your mouth, to anybody who is eating one. In the end it's not really about what they do for him either, either of them. He just isn't invested in the idea of legally joining himself to someone else or even having to put up with them in the same domestic environment.

There have been other boyfriends of course. He hasn't been so irrevocably damaged by one foolish relationship that everything else is tainted. It's just that over time, over the steady march of years, he's found himself less bothered by the idea of being content in his separation. He enjoys the company of friends, the occasional intimacy between the sheets. It's just that he enjoys the dignified quiet of self-chosen isolation too. He can come home after a long shift, make himself dinner, turn up the volume on the hi-fi and drink his scotch in peace. There is no one to complain that he leaves his dirty clothes in a pile, no one to tell him off for his choice of food, no one to ask him to turn the music down or drink less expensive scotch. He can come home and eat a cooked pork joint he picked up from the supermarket, with instant mash potato and gravy, and not have anyone remark on how unhealthy or stodgy or cheap anything is. He's at liberty to listen to Natalie Dessay at whatever volume he pleases. He can pour himself double measures of good scotch without complaint and mutter to himself in annoyance at the prevalence of artistic male nudes on the covers of certain classic novels. Nobody else has to put up with him and he doesn't have to put up with anybody else either.

He is of an age where he simply doesn’t possess the patience or self-indulgence to consider being lonely. He is too busy indulging himself in all the things that he felt that he ought not to in his youth: a house, with space for all his things, and no one nagging him to tidy up; food that he genuinely wants to eat, rather than is advised to; indulgences like high thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets, well-heeled shoes and alcohol delivered by Fortnum’s. Of course he tries not to overindulge, and attempts to keep a reasonable watch on his health, but that’s something he does for himself, rather than because somebody else is bullying him into it. He doesn’t need to share the responsibility for his own well-being with anybody else and wouldn’t want to. Nobody else in the world ought to be subjected to Detective Inspector Lestrade other than the man himself. Of course either of the Holmes brothers can on occasion be subjected to his company, among other things, and granted, their liaisons bear all the hallmarks of permanency, but it’s not a permanency that requires close and cloying proximity. He enjoys the absence of other people around him too much, so unlike his working days. It gives him space to breathe, space to be just who he is without any of the necessary rules of conduct in place that govern daily life. All in all, it's a well-managed situation, a perfect resolution, and there’s little more to it than that.

**Author's Note:**

> “Men marry because they are tired, women, because they are curious: both are disappointed.” – Oscar Wilde


End file.
